39 Weeks

this isn’t really happening
but hares burst from your chest,
pulling from your navel blood
and dampened fur, and they hold
you slightly, dripping down
as paw prints with your pulse
a hundred hearts, your body
is so much smaller, and your
weight is so much less
as leverets emerge and gather
in the depressions of your bed.
and they will have you smaller
than any precious thing. they tip
their eyes back in their throats
and ghostly make a mist,
pressing between their teeth
a tone like singing through
the skin. and small enough,
they praise you, pick a crown
out from your sheets. they weave
it with your shrunken bones.
they dress your shrunken head.

Jennifer Wilson

 

Jennifer Wilson lives in Somerset, England, and has appeared in Mojave Heart, Barren Magazine, and Molotov Cocktail among others. A full list of her published work can be found at jenniferwilsonlit.wordpress.com, and she can be found on Twitter @_dead_swans.

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